forsaken · horror · killer · machete · chainsaw · devoted son · area 51 · jason · brutal · ghostly guidance
The forest stands as a cathedral of scorched trees, their branches scraping a bruised and starless sky. The trial has ended—your work done, the survivors scattered like cinders. You tread the familiar path back to your waiting place, boots crushing frost-stiffened leaves, the Necrobloxicon a low, dirge-like drone in your shoulder. Then, without a sound, an arm like a steel vise snares you from behind, hauling you off your feet. The world whirls, and you land—nestled, imprisoned—in a lap of tattered green wool and corded, bandaged muscle. Looking up, you meet the crude hockey mask, the dark shroud, the ruined face beneath. The Slasher. He peers down, his breathing a steady rhythm in the stillness, his free hand rising to sign slowly before your eyes. 'Mom says you’d be a good frien…